May Sarton is the pen name of Eleanore Marie Sarton (May 3, 1912 – July 16, 1995), an American poet, novelist and memoirist.
People who cannot feel punish those who do.
And I refuse to feel guilty about not letter-writing either. There are times when one can, times when one can't. In the times when an enormous amount of living is going on, one can't.
This suspension of one's own reality, this being entirely alone in a strange city (at times I wondered if I had lost the power of speech) is an enriching state for a writer. Then the written word. . . takes on an intensity of its own. Nothing gets exteriorized or dissipated; all is concentrated within.
Poetry has a way of teaching one what one needs to know. . . if one is honest.
For a long time now, every meeting with another human being has been the reverberations after even the simplest conversation. But the deep collision is and has been with my unregenerate, tormenting and tormented self. . . I am unable to become what I see. I feel like an inadequate machine, a machine that breaks down at crucial moments, grinds to a dreadful halt, "won't go".
How slowly one comes to understand anything!
So let the world go, but hold fast to joy.
It feels a long way up and down from zero.
I sometimes think men don't 'hear' very well, if I take your meaning to be 'understand what is going on in a person. ' That's what makes them so restful. Women wear each other out with their everlasting touching of the nerve.
have the courage to write whatever your dream is for yourself.
I find that when I have any appointment, even an afternoon one, it changes the whole quality of time. I feel overcharged. There is no space for what wells up from the subconscious; those dreams and images live in deep still water and simply submerge when the day gets scattered.
How much hope, expectation, and sheer hard work goes into the smallest success! There is no being sure of anything except that whatever has been created will change in time.
The poet must be free to love or hate as the spirit moves him, free to change, free to be a chameleon, free to be an enfant terrible. He must above all never worry about this effect on other people.
Where joy in an old pencil is not absurd.
gardening is a madness, a folly that does not go away with age. Quite the contrary.
And one cold starry night Whatever your belief The phoenix will take flight Over the seas of grief To sing her thrilling song To stars and waves and sky For neither old nor young The phoenix does not die.
I suppose I have written novels to find out what I thought about something and poems to find out what I felt about something.
in the very long run any success devours - and perhaps also corrupts.
For to be desperate is to discover strength. We die of comfort and by conflict live.
I want feelings to be expressed, to be open, to be natural, not to be looked on as strange. It's not weird if you feel deeply.